New Growth
by LiteraryLiv
Summary: Sherlock returns to Baker Street after his death, and he and John reunite, once again partners in crime. But there's something different about John and Sherlock is concerned. One shot.


**AN: This makes a teensy bit more sense if you have seen the 25 second promo they released for Season 3 of Sherlock. It's stupid and got my hopes up totally unnecessarily, but watch it anyway just to see Martin Freeman's new face! (May be unsuitable for more visually sensitive viewers) **

John breathed in deeply. It felt like newer, fresher, sweeter air was filling his lungs. He smiled genuinely at the man a foot away from him, still hardly believing that he was standing there and that it was not a mirage. Solidly filling John's vision once more were those dark curls and long lanky body wrapped in that familiar Belstaff coat and blue neckscarf that framed his pale skin. His feet were once more firmly situated on the carpet of their apartment on Baker Street, and those bright slate-blue eyes-

-Were staring dead at him as if viewing two exquisitely rare frogs reproducing.

"Uhh, What is it?"

"Hmmm?"

"Sherlock. What?" His flatmate's gaze was trained on the area between John's nose and mouth, and the expression was of near alarm.

"No, Sherlock, really, what the hell are you looking at?" Sherlock took a breath with out blinking or moving a muscle.

"Not to disturb you, John, but in the time I was gone you seem to have developed a horrendous, hairy mass on your lip, and I am highly concerned." At this, John hastily touched his face in bewilderment, only to reach understanding which resulted in an eye roll and dry chuckle.

"I assure you there is nothing funny about this situation!" Sherlock snapped and leaned closer to inspect his friends face, before being pushed calmly away. "Have you been taking anything unusual, any new hormones?"

"Uh, Sherlock, I am a doctor, right, why would I prescribe myself something with harmful side effects? This is just-"

"-Absolutely grotesque! What sort of a doctor are you to not take notice of this blemish on your face? How do you live with your tiny little brain, I have no idea... Now, if we hurry we can make it to St. Barts and get this monstrosity evaluated before it becomes inoperable." The taller man grabbed John by the arm in a purposeful stride towards the door of the flat, while grabbing John's keys off the mantle (next to a human skull from who knows where) and cell phone off the cluttered table, placing both in a dark, fleecy pocket.

John sputtered in surprise, and a struggle ensued between language and physicality.

"W-wait, Sherlock, stop for a second-"

"It is for your own good, John." Sherlock cut in briskly. He had the upper hand in both struggles, as per usual, and deftly used his free hand to snatch John's jacket off the back of his armchair, trying to tug the sleeves on the arms of the wriggling doctor.

"But Sherlock-"

"No buts, John, I only want what's best for you." He successfully got John's arm in a sleeve -realizing too late it was the wrong sleeve- when John finally managed to pull himself loose from the vice of Sherlock's bony elbow.

"Sherlock, listen. I do not have any disease, virus, or abnormal growth of any kind. It's just a little facial hair." Sherlock gaped at him unbelievingly.

"A little? A little? It looks like something Molly should be excavating from a cadaver in the pathologists lab!" John sighed, pulling his arms free from his coat.

"I knew you wouldn't like it."

Sherlock scoffed. "Like it? That doesn't even begin to cover it! Mycroft would cry if he saw you, and he has a medically diagnosed defect in the tear glands of both eyes."

"Well, see Sherlock, I like it, and it's not like you were supposed to be around to critique me. I'm not the one who can't walk around London with less than £500 worth of clothing on him at all times."

"Forget about me, I think we should still go to the hospital to check your vision. Or your sanity."

"Lestrade likes it."

"Then I question his health as well."

"Look, Sherlock, I really don't give a rat's arse what you think of my mustache, it makes me feel good. I feel more respectable, I look distinguished-"

"Even Anderson wouldn't be seen dead with that."

"Oh, for God's sake, I'll bloody SHAVE IT THEN!"


End file.
